Winner Takes All Page 3

  With a snap of the ribbons, the team turned a tight circle in the drive and trotted at a brisk pace down the lane and away from the house.

  She leaned against doorframe and watched him drive away, not knowing whether to shower frustrated curses after him or break down in devastated tears. She lifted her hand to her lips and felt the wet heat he’d left there—a kiss of goodbye. Only when the team turned onto the main road and disappeared from sight behind the spindly yew hedge did she finally let a soft cry of anger and loss rise from her throat.

  “Francesca! I thought I’d heard horses.” Uncle Jonas rounded the corner of the house from the rear lawn and its scattering of outbuildings. As always, he was dressed in tweeds for hunting and surrounded by a small pack of dogs that nipped at his boot heels. “So you’re back from the track. How was this morning’s training?”

  “Just fine.” Not a lie—it had gone well. For the horse. Her bottom, on the other hand…ouch.

  “Good, good,” he muttered, his attention split between her and the pack of dogs. “And how are your jockey and boy working out for you?”

  “They’re doing well.” So that was a lie. But she couldn’t help it. Her father and uncle would never have agreed to participate in any part of this scheme if they knew what she’d planned. They believed she’d found a professional jockey to ride Midnight and a dedicated exercise boy for the training sessions, and she’d said nothing to correct their assumptions.

  “Ah, excellent!”

  He put a small metal whistle to his lips and piped out three short blasts. Around him, the hounds immediately stopped and sat back on their haunches. All moved nearly in unison, so well trained were they. While Jonas’s horse stables were largely neglected, his dog kennels ranked among the best in England. Always full to overflowing, and each dog a prized possession. He understood the joy to be found in breeding the best animals, which was why he’d agreed to let her and Midnight stay with him in preparation for the Derby. He wanted her to win as much as she did, although for different reasons.

  “Oh! I almost forgot. This arrived for you, my dear.” He fished a letter from his breast pocket and handed it to her, still not realizing that she hadn’t moved from the doorframe or that one foot dangled uselessly beneath her. But she was certain he’d noticed her father’s seal on the franked letter, even if he made no comment about it. “The Royal Mail! As dependable as…well, the Royal Mail.”

  She forced a smile for him as he moved past her to fling open the opposite side of the double front doors, then entered the house. Once he was across the threshold, he sounded another sharp bleat on the whistle. The pack of dogs scrambled to their feet in a frenzy of whirling paws and clicking toenails on the stone. Not to run back to the kennel but to follow after him, right through the front door, inside the house, and past the aggrieved butler who rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.

  Her smile faded, and she glanced down at the letter from her father. Oh, this couldn’t be good!

  She snapped the wax seal. As she read the letter, her stomach plummeted to her knees.

  Papa had found a man he wanted her to consider for marriage. Lord Charles, the Duke of Norwich’s second son. He’d already given Charles permission to court her and implied that he was willing to consider an offer for her hand—

  “By August,” she choked out in a disbelieving whisper.

  The letter slipped from her numb fingers and drifted to the porch floor to land at her injured foot.

  Her only hope for escape now was to win the Derby. Always before, she’d allowed herself to believe in the possibility that Papa wouldn’t hold her to the agreement, no matter the outcome. But now that hope vanished like a curl of smoke from a chimney. If she won, though, Papa would never renege on his agreement, no matter how much it would irritate him. Viscount Darlington was nothing if not a man of his word. Yet dread squeezed her heart because the odds of winning now were nearly nonexistent.

  Shaw was right. She either needed to find a new plan for the race or sell her soul to the devil for a win.

  As she reached down to snatch up the letter, she unthinkingly stepped onto her right foot. Pain shot up her leg, through her body, and straight out the top of her head like a lightning bolt. She stumbled back against the door and held on to it so hard that her fingertips turned white as pain pulsed through her.

  She blinked hard to fight down the burning tears of pain, frustration, and grief. She couldn’t ride, and now all the hard work she’d put in during the past three years would come to nothing. Ashes! All her dreams would be destroyed.

  Worse—there would no longer be any way to delay marriage.

  She rolled her tear-blurred eyes as the truth soaked over her like an icy rain. What a fool she’d been! Papa had most likely planned this match for her all along, agreeing to allow her three years to herself only so he could wait until Lord Charles was graduated from Oxford and secured a government position before pressing openly for the match.

  Papa had never believed in her. He’d simply been biding his time.

  The only hope she had left was that Midnight might somehow win. But she would have to find a good jockey, someone she could trust to ride the colt, and here in Epsom she knew no one to turn to for help. Except…

  Jackson Shaw.

  She grimaced. Apparently, she’d be selling her soul to the devil after all.

  Chapter Three

  Shaw sat at the long wooden table in his kitchen with the farm’s account books spread out around him in the glow of the lamp and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He’d spent the evening attempting to rob Peter to pay Paul in a desperate bid to keep the creditors at bay for a little while longer.

  It wasn’t working.

  In frustration, he shoved himself away from the table and crossed to the hearth, to top off his cup from the half empty coffee pot resting on the grate.

  If he didn’t win the Derby, then his horse farm was done. Simple as that. Even selling off half his stock of horses wouldn’t be enough to meet the rent, buy the hay and grain needed to feed the rest through the winter, and pay the grooms. Raising and training his own horses had always been his dream, but his timing had been far from ideal. When he’d started the farm, he hadn’t yet saved up enough, hadn’t been ready with his plans…but he’d been more than ready to leave Willow Wood.

  “Desperate to leave,” he muttered.

  The temptation Frankie had presented had simply been too much to bear.

  The night before he’d left, they’d met at the old cottage as they’d often done. There was the same basket of food she’d smuggled from the kitchens, the same bottle of wine he’d gotten from the local tavern, the same blankets spread out beneath the stars. But that time, she’d offered herself to him. It was all he could do to deny himself the pleasure of her, knowing from previous intimacies how sweet she was, how much he ached to possess her completely.

  How much he loved her.

  But while they might be able to engage in light play without being discovered, there were lines that could never be crossed. At that moment, with Frankie lying half naked on the blanket, his mouth and hands on her, and soft pleas for pleasure falling from her lips— A line? Christ. They’d hit a brick wall.

  He frowned at the dark liquid as it splashed into his mug. Francesca Darlington…Good God. He’d thought he’d never see her again. Why would he? Normal society misses existed in a separate world from his, far away from those masculine pastimes of horses, hunting, and racing. Besides, any normal society miss would have been married by now, busy with her own house to run and children to spoil.

  But Frankie had never been a normal miss.

  Apparently, she still wasn’t.

  She was as beautiful and intriguing as ever, with a sense of adventure that still cast her into trouble, a sharp mind and quick wit that ran circles around other society ladies, an innate wildness that churned inside her like a summer storm—intense and just as untamed. Even more so now than he remembered. The p
ast four years had matured her from the fresh-faced girl he’d fallen in love with into a woman in full. One who simply captivated him.

  He would have bet his last ha’penny that she’d have forgotten about him by now. But when he’d kissed her, he realized the truth—she hadn’t forgotten him at all. Just as he hadn’t forgotten her.

  Scowling, he dropped the pot back onto the grate with a clatter and took comfort in the burn of the hot liquid down his throat.

  A knock rapped at the door.

  He reached for his pocket watch and frowned at the time. Almost midnight, long past when Paddy and the other grooms had gone to bed. Long past when he should have been in bed himself, given that he’d be at the track at first light to put Ghost through his paces. If the weather held and there weren’t any more surprises, he had a very good shot at the prize money. If not…He glanced back at the account books and grimaced.

  With a curse, he flung open the door.

  “Hello, Jack.”

  He froze, except for his heart which lodged itself in his throat. Speaking of surprises…“Francesca.”

  She hesitated. Her lips parted delicately as if she’d lost the courage to see him now that she was here, standing face to face. “I need to speak with you.”

  A quick look over her head revealed her uncle’s carriage, complete with driver and tiger. “At least you weren’t foolish enough to ride over by yourself.” He glanced down at the cane she leaned on. He couldn’t see her ankle beneath the hem of her coat dress, but he would have wagered in the book at White’s that it was wrapped with a thick bandage, swollen, and all shades of black and blue. “Although God only knows what tale you’ve spun your uncle for going out at such a late hour.”

  “I told the truth. That I had race business to attend to.”

  “At midnight?” Disbelief dripped from his voice.

  “Late race business.”

  He didn’t find her explanation amusing. “Visiting a bachelor after dark at his house?” He crossed his arms, not yet letting her into the kitchen. “Something tells me that you don’t have a companion tucked into that carriage to preserve your reputation.”

  “Alfred and John would never speak ill of me,” she assured him, and also assured him that he was correct in his assumption.

  He flicked the two men a glance. Perhaps. She had a way of wrapping grooms and drivers around her little finger. Certainly had with him. Yet he knew he’d find himself hunting down both men in the morning and paying them well from what little money he had left to ensure their silence.

  She nodded toward the kitchen. “May I come in?”

  “Depends.” He gestured dryly with his mug at her cane. “Is that thing loaded?”

  She flashed him a wry smile. “Come closer, and let’s find out.”

  He couldn’t stop the curl of his lips. Or keep himself from stepping aside and letting her pass over the threshold. Yet he left the door wide open for the benefit of the men waiting at the carriage. And for his own sanity. He couldn’t allow a repeat of what happened between them that morning on her uncle’s front stoop.

  He took her arm and helped her onto the closest chair, then leaned her cane against the cupboard, well out of reach should she decide to use it on him after all. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Her face turned grim. “You’re right.”

  He paused as he reached for a second mug dangling from a hook over the hearth. “Pardon?”

  “I said that you’re right about the race.” Aggravation at having to admit that edged her voice.

  “Could you repeat that one more time? I don’t think I heard you. You said that I’m right?”

  She scowled at him. “Be serious, will you? I can’t race Midnight on my own. The Derby is less than two weeks away, and my ankle won’t be healed in time. I have to find a jockey for the race and an exercise boy for the training sessions.”

  He poured the last of the coffee into the empty mug and set it on the table in front of her. “And you want me to recommend someone?”

  “Yes,” she grudgingly admitted.

  “There are several good riders in the area. I can give you a list of names.” He pulled a second chair up next to hers.

  She added ruefully as she reached for the coffee, “Ones who don’t mind taking instruction from a woman?”

  “That’s a harder proposition.”

  “I know. That’s why I thought…” Her voice trailed off as he carefully elevated her leg, placed her foot on the chair, and balled up a kitchen towel to pillow it.

  Stepping back, he quirked a brow as he lifted his mug to take a sip of coffee and prompted, “You thought what?”

  Sudden eagerness gripped her. Her excitement was palpable. So was her desperation. “I have a wonderful idea for Midnight. Please just hear me out—”

  “Oh no.” He shot her a warning glare. He knew that look—one of scheming. The same one that always ended up with Francesca in trouble up to her elegant neck. “Whatever you’ve planned, forget it.”

  She sagged back in the chair. “You haven’t even heard my idea yet.”

  “I don’t have to. I know how your ideas go.” To make his point, he brushed his fingertips lightly over her foot.

  “This isn’t like that.” She blew out a patient breath and began, “Since I can’t ride Midnight myself—”

  “At least you’ve conceded that much,” he muttered as he flopped down onto a chair across from her and kicked out his long legs.

  She ignored him and continued, “Then I need a good jockey who can. Someone capable of handling a horse who’s stubborn, headstrong, and only half-broken in the thick of the race.”

  “Like his owner, you mean?”

  She chose to ignore that, too, if not for the glower on her face. “Someone who will listen when I give him instructions on how to handle my colt. Not many men in racing respect a woman’s opinion, no matter how familiar she might be with horses or how good of a horsewoman herself. You know that as well as I.”

  He did know it and so grudgingly replied, “Go on.”

  “But they will respect a male trainer,” she tumbled out quickly, getting to the heart of her plan. “Especially one of your caliber. So that’s why I need you to find me a good jockey and exercise boy—and for you to pretend to be Midnight’s trainer.”

  He laughed.

  “A jockey and exercise boy will listen to you.” She leaned toward him, her eyes flashing with hope, her heart pounding so hard with the desperate possibility of what she was presenting that her bosom rose and fell alluringly beneath her high-collared coat dress. “They won’t listen to me. So if they believe that you’re Midnight’s trainer, I can tell you what I want done with the colt, and you can pass it along to them.”

  His laugh deepened. “I’m a horse trainer, not a ventriloquist’s dummy.”

  She leaned back in the chair, the hope and brightness easing from her like a deflating balloon. She looked away, but not before he saw the glistening of tears in her eyes.

  The sight pierced him. She’d always been proud. To come here like this to beg for his help…Christ.

  But what she wanted from him was ludicrous.

  “This isn’t some guinea race on the downs, Francesca,” he said as gently as possible, wanting to talk sense into her. “This is the Epsom Derby. The most important race of the year.” He gave a shake of his head, hoping she would understand. “You raised an outstanding colt, I’ll grant you that, and you came here prepared to race and win. That took courage. But perhaps the best option now is to scratch Midnight’s entry. Your father isn’t a tyrant. He’ll understand if you don’t want to marry.”

  She whispered, “He won’t.”

  With a trembling hand, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a letter. She slid it across the table toward him. He picked it up, opened it, and read—

  His eyes darted up to hers. Her father had picked a husband for her.

  “Now you know why I have to enter Midnight and win. Why
I can’t let this go.” She reached across the table for his hand and clutched it tightly in hers. “Please, Jack…help me.”

  He turned his attention to the letter, not daring to look at her. Just one glance at the hopelessness he knew would be on her face, and he would have promised her the world to make it go away.

  This wasn’t his concern, damn it! Society misses were ushered into marriages by their parents all the time, all for rank and wealth and name. They wedded whomever their parents wanted and went quietly into marriage, to eventually do the same to their own daughters. The last thing he should do was interfere, especially since the viscount had picked a good man for her. Someone from a prestigious family capable of keeping her in the luxurious life she deserved, someone from her world.

  Someone she didn’t love.

  “Fine.” He shoved himself to his feet and crossed to the hearth. He needed to get away from the table—and put her out of arm’s length so he couldn’t grab her to him and make her swear to never marry Lord Charles or any duke’s son. To never marry any man but him. “I’ll find you a jockey and exercise boy.” He leaned a tired hand against the old wooden beam that formed the mantel. “But I’m taking over the training. All of it. You and Midnight have to do as I say, and you don’t get to order me about.”

  Her mouth fell open. “That’s not what—”

  He shot her a quelling glance over his shoulder that silenced her in mid protest. “You might know good bloodlines, but I know temperamental horses. And that colt of yours is the most unpredictable horse I’ve come across in years. If he’s not worked with carefully, he’ll endanger every horse and rider on the track, including himself. You said that you’re the only one who can handle him. I think it’s more that you’re the only one who’s willing to tolerate him.”